The Markings of an Enemy
by elsatempestas
Summary: Set immediately after the scene in Thor where Loki discovers his heritage from Odin


The flame-light glimmered off the golden walls and the darkness threatened to push in on the edges of his vision. His throat was still raw from tearing those words out of it, wrenching them up from somewhere dark and hurt and afraid. The floor seemed to jar against the bones of his legs as he knelt there, enveloped in a crushing weakness that would not let him stand. His elbows locked in an attempt to push his trembling form up from the ground but the weight of his own head seemed too much to lift, too much to bear. A chocking sob forced its way up through his chest and emerged as a broken whimper. The sound of the guards' armour rattled away into the distance, away from the reach of his hearing and into the sonorous depths of the palace halls. The bore with them his father... the Allfather...  
Odin...

_Laufeyson. Son of Laufey. Jotun Jotun Jotun. _

The tips of his fingers curled into a crack in the floor, pressing against the edge until they hurt. He looked down at his pale hands through a distorting film of tears, watched his ragged breaths mist the polished surface. Over and over he replayed the conversation that had wounded him far greater than any battle blow. He had been torn open, splayed before the elements, his insides at mercy to a pack of wolves. Each time they tore, his voice threatened to break, threatened to surge forth in cries that would wrack his battered body. He pushed it back, cursing beneath his breath, cursing his weakness, his flaws, his blood.

It was hours before he stood. The room swam like a crude painting, like daubed blood or dye. The faint glow of the casket shimmered over his skin and lent to it a disturbing azure hue. He imagined the markings curling across it, choking his limbs like vines. The markings of an enemy, a monster. Who was he to walk these rooms? To flit about them like a ghost cursed to dwell in shadows? He was a weapon, a treaty, insurance for a golden kingdom built on the blood of felled realms.

He left the vault, drifting like something insubstantial, something that could be carried in currents, in eddies of water or wind. Occasionally he would fall against a wall for support, fingers splayed out on the cool surface, breath catching on memories. He wiped away the salty traces from his eyes yet again and again they shone with a relentless stream. His own chambers were darkened and ordered. Nothing was out of place. How could his possessions stand there so idly, so unchanged when the whole world had reeled out of place? A book lay open upon his bed, pages folded on various enchantments, waiting for his return to study. What had he expected? Chasms? The marble floor to be shorn apart in tumult? Nay, the tumult was only within his being, and the whole realm spun on as if there had been no change.

He passed a silvered surface and caught a glimpse of his reflection; bruised eyes, shadowed pale skin, raven hair slicked back down to his nape. Did Jotuns have such hair? He could not recall it upon any of them; just bony protrusions along their skulls and ridged blue skin. He pressed his fingers to his scalp and imagined them there, ugly, garish, monstrous. He was wearing a cloak, a disguise. Something woven by the Odin-force to conceal such monstrosity. In his mind's eye he saw Laufey, lip curled in a mocking sneer, crimson eyes trapping him in an unwavering glare.

_I am not your son. I am not one of you. I was raised an Asgardian. Nothing has changed. _

No wonder they named him the god of lies. He could not even narrate the truth to himself. Lies were sweeter. The truth was too bitter a taste for him. He dared not rest for fear of dreams of ice and darkness. Of walls rimed in hoar frost that spread down over his restless form. Of crystalline limbs and blood red eyes, of snow falling in raven hair that shrunk back and was replaced with bone.  
_  
I will destroy them all. Tear apart their realm. Relish their dying cries. If there is no Jotunheim, there is no monster by the name of 'Jotun'. There is no race to adhere to but that of Asgard. No family but the one gilt in gold and honour. None shall know and all shall forget. There is no Loki Laufeyson; only Loki Odinson, prince of the Golden Realm. _


End file.
